


The Three Times Arthur Failed At Romancing Merlin, And The One Time He Didn't

by claimedbydaryl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Martin Freeman makes a brief guest appearance, One Shot, i swear to god i tried to make it cute, it includes way too much kissing to be legal, lets hope it hits you in the honey nut feelios
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a quite tumultuous start to their relationship, Merlin and Arthur now share a blissfully happy existence in their dingy little apartment, watching Lord Of The Rings, making crepes and spending far too much time in bed. Arthur decided it was about time he showed Merlin just how much it meant to him, but his numerous romantic plans soon go awry--or so he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three Times Arthur Failed At Romancing Merlin, And The One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> Blame BBC.
> 
> Also, my [tumblr](http://diggitydamnsebastianstan.tumblr.com/) is a sanctuary for all you to join me in shipping hell.

It’s not that Arthur wasn’t romantic, it was more to the fact he hadn’t had the opportunity to exercise those specific talents before—well, the non-physical kind. He was a master of carnal love—Arthur had to consider his use of the word _love_ when most of his sexual encounters were cold, consisting of hollow hearts and too-rough hands—for years, even before his father’s death, but emotional love was something entirely different.

And he shouldn’t even have been worried when it came to making his feelings known; it wasn’t like Merlin was a stranger. It wasn’t like Merlin couldn’t read every single one of his tics—his jaw clenching when he was angry, the tension evident in the line of his body when he was forced to hold his tongue on a subject he disagreed with, or the soft, dangerously affectionate look he got in his eyes when Merlin kissed his hand in the dim light of their living room, like he was a prince or something. It wasn’t like he thought of Merlin as his family more than the people he shared blood with.

It wasn’t like Merlin had seen him at his absolute worst—his insides torn open and put back together so many times it was a wonder he still functioned like a normal human being—and still thought he was the only shred of light in an otherwise dark world.

Arthur recalled his time spent at boarding school, to the moment he’d first met his roommate; a gawky, big-eared kid with eyes bluer than the sky and a wide, unabashed smile that could cure cancer.

But—as much as Arthur liked to think—it wasn’t love at first sight. It probably wasn’t even anything remotely special for the first few months, Arthur trying desperately to conform to his father’s controlling demands and Merlin attempting to hide what the bigoted Uther Pendragon had so much as banned in Camelot, the school he lorded over as headmaster.

The voice of Arthur’s father still had the power to make him straighten his spine, vaguely registering the sound of Uther firing off orders in the back of his skull, speaking in a tone that brooked no argument— _tuck in your shirt boy, you look a vagrant. Failing basic arithmetic is not acceptable in this family, Arthur. I don’t care if you had plans this weekend; sport is a responsibility that we decided to commit too._

Be smarter. Be faster. Be better.

It was an endless cycle of criticisms, every barbed comment or snide remark crushing Arthur further under the weight of carrying on the family name, buckling under the strain of his father’s expectations. But he wasn’t his father—Arthur didn’t excel in sport, or grasp the concept of maths or science beyond a rudimentary level of education. And no matter how hard he tried Arthur could never seem to appease Uther’s wishes, not when the phantom voice of his father told him he knew—that he’d always known.

Arthur had managed to keep his true feelings at bay for the first half of his life, but only so much could be kept a secret in the thick, heady air of the boy’s locker rooms, the tantalising flashes of naked skin sending a bolt of heat to all the wrong places.

He was thirteen the first time he kissed a boy, mud-slick and sweaty with exertion after a spirited game of football. The school was deserted halfway through Christmas break, only a handful of students and wayward teachers left to wander the suffocating halls of Camelot. They were alone—Arthur and the boy he had long forgotten the name of—and wrestling on the sodden ground of the football field. One minute it didn’t surpass the general roughhousing of young naïve boys, and the next they were kissing, mouths eager and much too sloppy for it to have been a pre-meditated decision.

He was sixteen the first time he had sex with a boy—he and Gwen had started dating two years prior, but whatever ill-placed hope he still harboured for having a normal life burnt out a few months into their non-existent relationship. Camelot was in celebration, having won the football premiership against their age-old rival. Aloud with raucous noise and bleary with smuggled booze, it was easy for Arthur to slip into his bedroom with his hand gripped tight and bruising around a stranger’s wrist. Images blurred and inhibitions long-since lost, they’d stumbled into bed with the intent to gratify some base, animal desire rather than to feel. It had been horrible—the sharp pain of intrusion and hard, empty thrusts never once giving way to pleasure—and the end was a disaster in itself.

Merlin had barged inside their shared room, his striped tie hanging askew, hair disarrayed and tripping over his own feet, muttering something about _those bloody arseholes with their ball games_. Only after he’d closed the door, kicked his shoes halfway across the room and shucked off the too-large blazer he was constantly readjusting, did his gaze snap to Arthur’s bed. Merlin had just stood there and stared at him with his mouth agape and his face a picture of slack-jawed shock. Arthur had forgotten how to move, wanting to push the other boy off him but worried any movement would shatter the fragile stillness and spur Merlin into running to his father. Arthur’s heart hammered in his chest, his pulse thudding fast and loud in his ears.

He had never been more scared in his life.

It was the same night Merlin had also revealed what he had strove to keep hidden for years—that he was gay too, like Arthur. He remembered begging, down on his knees and gripping onto Merlin’s shirt like he was an anchor in a storm. But Merlin had pulled Arthur to his feet, making sure he put on some clothes and scrounging up a cup of tea just how he liked it—white, with two sugars and a teaspoon of honey—before sitting him down on his bed. And there, in the dark comfort of his room with Merlin’s slim arm around his shoulder, he said he would never breathe a word of it to another soul, not unless Arthur wanted too.

After that night he seemed to notice Merlin more—revelling in the sound of his infectious laugh in the commons room, how the light pressure of his long, elegant fingers seemed to burn right though the fabric of his sleeve, and the foreign but oddly nice feeling settling in his stomach whenever Merlin leant close to whisper nonsense to him during class, the smile evident in his voice.

It wasn’t long before Arthur kissed him, no more than a sleepy press of lips.

He was eighteen—free from his father’s clutches, having quit all sport save for fencing and ended it with Gwen a week after Merlin had walked in on Arthur in the midst of losing his virginity—the first time he was in love. It was Merlin, of course—the person he was in love with.

He was in love with how his lips felt against his neck, tugging at the skin in a teasing bite. He was entranced with how—wrapped up beside him in the faint morning light—Merlin’s black hair would be cast in a halo of gold, illuminating his lithe form against the rumpled bed sheets. And he was enamoured with the feeling of Merlin’s front pressed to his back, his breath hot and close to his ear and hands entwined above his head, filled him with an emotion he hadn’t the skill to name—it was contentment, he realized, and safety.

But it was so much more than that—it was belonging.

It was him, Arthur Pendragon, being completely and irrevocably in love with Merlin Emrys.

He was twenty the first time he said it back—that Merlin was his everything. The pair had just taken a step outside of a homey little café, momentarily shocked by the cold draft of wind that seemed to cut right through their thick, bundled-up winter clothes. Standing in the doorway, their stomachs warm and full with one too many cups of tea and shoving their gloves on to ward off frostbite, Arthur had turned to Merlin. He was grinning; his nose already red with cold and his ridiculous ears sticking out under the brim of a woollen beanie—beautiful.

“Look,” Merlin had said, a little breathless. “It’s snowing.”

There, under a gentle shower of snowflakes and still not game enough to brave the full force of winter, Arthur stalled time. Just a few more seconds to drink in the sight of Merlin. That great big git, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking his hands to keep warm, smiling at Arthur like he was his whole world. And he was happy—and Merlin was too, which made it all the more better.

He kissed Merlin then, without fear of being seen or ridiculed. “I love you,” Arthur whispered, lips moving reverently across the line of his stubbled jaw, his hand fisted in his stupid red necktie.

Merlin smiled wide against the skin of his cheek, nosing his head like a puppy. “I love you too.”

It didn’t matter that they lived in an apartment that was barely a few metres wide, and that their second-hand bed took up more than half the space of their biggest room. Their stove only worked in the morning, and their water was ice cold in the absence of another body to warm it up. Their telly looked like it belonged in the 80s, and thanks to Merlin’s job in his uncle’s antique bookstore a mismatched collection of old, worn paperback novels and hardcovers now lined the wall of their bedroom, slowly growing out of control. Arthur would fall asleep reading the titles etched along the spines of his books, his mouth pressed to the crown of Merlin’s head and his hand tracing absent patterns on his shoulder.

His father had died a year prior, but not before Arthur had held Merlin’s hand in the hallway of his childhood home and told Uther that he liked to have sex with men—and that it was okay. Arthur had grieved for the loss of his father, like any son should, but he did not miss him.

He couldn’t miss someone who had kept him from being who he was.

And now, twenty-one and thankful for every day of his life, Arthur just wanted to show Merlin how much he meant to him. Except, well, he didn’t exactly know how to do that. Whispering sweet nothings into his ear at night only went so far, and it wasn’t like Merlin was ignorant of the fact he was Arthur’s everything—Arthur just wanted to better at this, to be better for him. Takeout food and long nights spent watching old black-and-white movies about knights and ladies on the telly weren’t near enough, not even a marathon of all six Middle Earth movies.

The first time Arthur tried to do something nice and romantic and normal for Merlin, he pulled out all the stops.  There was a little Italian restaurant he’d been eyeing off for a while now, but most of the stuff on the menu was worth almost three weeks of his wages. Arthur made a reservation two months in advance and lived of noodles and whatever sludge his landlord dared to call rainwater to save up. He’d booked a limo to take him and Merlin there, and another one to take them to the swanky hotel room he’d paid the night for.

An hour before Merlin got off work Arthur showered; shaved; and put on a nice outfit he’d ironed himself and an even nicer coat. He was ready about twenty minutes too early, a nervous ball of tension eating away at his stomach and fingers trembling at the knot of the stiff tie at his neck. He gripped the bouquet of roses he’d picked out special even tighter, his knuckles white with tension. Arthur couldn’t seem to calm down; he couldn’t even swallow a few sips of beer to settle his roiling stomach.

He was just worried that he—standing there stinking of aftershave, holding a bunch of roses and all dressed up with nowhere to go—would look stupid in front of Merlin. That Merlin would wave him off like an errant child, like it didn’t matter how much time and effort he’d put into them actually going on a real-life date. They’d never gone on an official date before—never really had the drive to get up and go out after living together for years on end, both at school and even after it finished—and this was probably as close as they were gonna get.

He heard the key rattle in the lock, then a click and the door swung open in a wide arc. “Arthur!” Merlin called out, arms laden with grocery bags and about seven more books he thought needed a good home. Arthur knew he couldn’t juggle all that without one or two things breaking—it was a miracle Merlin could even hold a pen for more than three seconds without dropping it. “You would not believe what book I found—” He turned, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Arthur.

“Hi,” he said pathetically, rubbing at the back of his neck as if to quell an itch.

Then, Merlin slammed the door shut with his leg, his face breaking into a jaw-splitting smile that seemed to soothe every frayed nerve in Arthur. He dropped everything in his arms—Arthur wincing at the sound of eggshells cracking—and was cradling Arthur’s face in his hands in seconds.

“What—”

Merlin silenced him with a kiss, open-mouthed and languid. Arthur reacted on instinct, his hands coming up to rest on the lean muscle of Merlin’s biceps, and then running over his shoulders and down to the small of his back, teasing the waistband of his pants. Lust unfurled in the bottom of Arthur’s stomach, running his tongue along the seam of Merlin’s mouth, the taste of him snow-fresh and familiar. Merlin’s fingers skimmed the stubble-free skin of his face, paying close attention to the hard line of his jawbone and the smooth curve of his cheekbone. His hold on Arthur soon entangled in his hair, gripping the fine blond hair tight. Their bodies fitted together—a familiar weight and feel they had long grown accustomed to.

“If you keep doing that,” Arthur panted against Merlin’s open, wet mouth, his eyes closed, “I don’t think we’ll ever leave this room.”

He felt Merlin’s laughter rather than saw it, the sound reverberating in his chest.

“Do you even want to know where we’re going?”

“I don’t care,” his voice was a little breathless, like he was floating on air.

“But—”

“Arthur, we could go to a hot dog stand and I wouldn’t care.”

He kissed him for that, just for how ridiculously, stupidly amazing Merlin was.

“Get dressed you great, big git.” Arthur said. “We got a place to be.”

Merlin reappeared ten minutes later, one of his roses tucked behind his ear and his customary necktie knotted around his thigh like a garter. “Is it me or is this just a little too sexy?” he asked, shrugging his slim shoulders in question, incapable of masking his grin.

“Just a tad.” Arthur couldn’t repress a smirk.

Merlin threw the rose at him in narrow-eyed response, rearranging his necktie back in its proper place at the hollow of his throat. He scooped up the remaining bouquet resting on the kitchen bench, waiting by the door with a massive grin on his face, like a little boy ready to go to the park. He was dancing on his toes, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What are you doing over there? Come on, let’s go.”

Arthur followed Merlin to the door diligently, his hand resting on the small of his back and his lips by his ear. He was happy just to be with him, to enjoy the simple pleasure of his company, but tonight was special. Crossing the threshold from the safety of their apartment building to the snow-wet pavement outside, the pair was buffeted by a frigid gust of air.

Merlin sucked in a breath at the sudden drop in temperature, stepping closer to Arthur to soak in his natural body warmth.  “You picked a fine night to seduce me, my liege,” he commented softly, a teasing glint in his blue, blue eyes.

“I am not trying to seduce you, Merlin.” His words may have carried an edge of petulance, but his arm slid around Merlin’s waist nonetheless—it was an impulse now. “I am trying to _romance_ you,” he rectified, pulling him even closer. Merlin’s head came to rest in the strong cradle of Arthur’s neck, their sides pressed flush together through layers of clothing.

“Then where is my romance?” Merlin asked in mock outrage, rising up to meet Arthur’s gaze. “I don’t see any string quartets or horse-drawn carriages, do you? I have high expectations of a night out—”

“What happened to the hot dog stand?”

“Hot dog stand? I meant five-star restaurant with silk tablecloths and a semi-nude Viggo Mortenson acting as our waiter. Preferably butt naked, but ass-less chaps will suffice.”

“What happened to Orlando Bloom?” Arthur threw back—as if ninety percent of their relationship didn’t consist of the banter fitting of an old married couple. “I thought you said you liked him more. You know—tall, beautiful, royal, with blue eyes and blond hair—practically sex on a stick?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Self-Confidence.” Merlin tightened his grip on his waist in response, enjoying this just a tad too much, and Arthur began to wonder where the limo was. “But I happen to prefer the dark, mysterious Ranger to a pampered pretty-boy elf with daddy issues.”

“Pampered?” he asked, lips curving in a dangerous smirk.

“Yes. Pampered.”

It was cold and wet—the snow already dirty and worn down under a thousand footsteps—and they were discussing the merits of the fictional characters of _Lord of The Rings_ , but Arthur couldn’t care less. A swell of emotion lodged somewhere high in his chest, so intense it almost choked him when he was caught unaware, but it was an unmistakable feeling—it was love. It was joy. It was the simple, basic need to be with someone, touching them, sharing all their mundane thoughts. It was pure and golden and fulfilling. Merlin didn’t so much as occupy his life, Merlin _was_ his life.

No matter what his father had said or threatened to do—write his inheritance out of his will, cut of all his ties to money or stability—Arthur did not bend. Because he had made a life with Merlin, living in a shoe-box apartment where power outages were not uncommon, their diet didn’t surpass noodles and tea, and their TV was drained out by the sound of the Ukrainian couple fighting upstairs more than once a week.

He kissed Merlin then, oblivious to whom or what were around them, and not caring anyway. Taken by surprise, Merlin’s offered resistance for a split-second before acquiescing to feel of Arthur’s mouth against his. Arthur’s tongue slid along the seam of Merlin’s lips, and he opened them on instinct, revealing a soft, wet inside Arthur quickly claimed as his own. Their hands moved on their own accord, some finding purchase on the masked curve of a bicep, others slipping inside wool-lined coats and brushing the hem of a sweater upwards to make contact with bare skin.

Still smiling against Merlin’s lips—not like he could stop now—Arthur caught sight of a sleek limousine round the corner ahead, approaching them. He leaned back from Merlin to break their embrace, calling him a sap when Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur’s neck once he realised their romantic endeavours had been postponed for the moment. The vehicle pulled up beside the sun-and-moon pair, still interwoven in the dim light on a forgotten street. The window rolled down with an electronic grace, revealing a bona fide valet in a trim, neat suit and a shining black hat.

“Arthur Pendragon?” The man asked with an air of casual politeness.

“Yes, I’m Arthur.”

He flashed the proper credentials, talking briefly with the valet until his fingers were numb with cold, before he and Merlin were bundled together in the leather backseat of the limo. Merlin’s leg slipped between Arthur’s, intertwining them further, and threading their fingers together like this was a normal occurrence—the gay heir to a corporate empire taking his long-time, aspiring-fantasy-writer boyfriend for a night on the town. They sipped on flutes of champagne; promptly listened to and ignored the instrumental music playing over the speakers; and may or may not have thrown strawberries at each other in hopes of catching it in their waiting mouths. The ride to the restaurant was almost too close to perfect, which should’ve tipped Arthur off to what would have inevitably happen.

The restaurant was lavish. Outside, glowing fairy lights hung from the roof and fake vines twisted around trellises, the natural earth tones of the brick exterior blending well with the overall mood of the restaurant—calm, charming, quaint. Inside, the first thing Arthur noticed was the undercurrent of garlic—bread, presumably—still lingering beneath the faint smell of jasmine and snow-fresh air. The hardwood floor was the colour of sun-baked stones; the furniture was fashioned from dark, polished wood; and the wall scones emanated with a gentle light.

“Well, this is . . . decidedly Italian.”

“You arse.”

“ _Prat_ —but it is though! Look at it!” Merlin cried indignantly into the safety of Arthur’s hair, like it was an outrage that the theme of an Italian restaurant was Italian. Fortunately, his words were muffled, incoherent words to the staff surrounding them.

In the few seconds their hostess was preoccupied with returning a phone call, Arthur ducked his head close to Merlin’s and said, “I know it is.” With an even wider smile plastered across Merlin’s big, dumb face, Arthur felt his boyfriend’s thumb trace deliberate circles over his hand.

The hostess turned to them, forcing a smile that almost looked natural to the untrained eye. Her expression changed, relaxing into something different and predatory altogether, once the realisation slid into place—that he was Arthur Pendragon, rich and famous and handsome—and then her gaze hardened as she noticed Merlin, holding his hand and grinning like a lunatic.

Arthur’s jaw clenched at the woman’s reaction, his spine straightening and his face morphing into a mask of indifference that was known to curdle milk. He hadn’t realised his grip on Merlin’s hand had tightened in a constricting hold, almost like he was holding onto a lifeline, until Merlin tugged on his sleeve—effectively breaking the spell.

“Arthur?” he prompted, a worried crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He flashed Merlin a quick smile in reassurance, his muscles relaxing. He had Merlin, he had to remember that—that’s all that mattered. Arthur then focused his attentions on the hostess, all feelings of affection dissipating in seconds.

“Arthur Pendragon,” he said, making an effort to sound neutral. “Reservation for two.”

She nodded, and Arthur felt another insistent tug on his sleeve. He dropped his head forward a fraction, feeling inadequate, like his skin was stretched too tight. Merlin’s touch was meant to convey a message— _I’m here, you’re okay. We’re okay._ And so Arthur listened to it, leaning into Merlin a little more than he usually would in public, needing him close.

“I’m sorry sir, but your reservation . . .” The hostess sounded uncomfortable, unnerved.

“What about our reservation?” Merlin asked. He beat Arthur too it, his smile wide and uninhibited—so unlike Arthur’s cruel, hard downturn of his lips.

“Your reservation was made on the 18th.”

“And?” Merlin was missing the point.

“Today is the 19th.”

“Oh.” Arthur heard the disappointment in Merlin’s voice, and it almost killed him, gutted him whole. “Well, can you check and see if you have any free tables? Like, we’ll eat in the kitchen if you’d let us.”

The hostess smiled faintly at Merlin’s comment, worn down by his charm. He had the power to do that—to make people like him with the sheer force of his niceness. Arthur felt a pang of guilt for judging her so quickly, and then relief at having Merlin there to clean up his mess.

She looked through the database and turned to them with a reluctant expression, like she didn’t want to tell them the bad news. Tucking a stand of hair behind her ear, she said, “The next booking is in three months.” She offered them a weak smile to soften the blow.

“Fine, right-o, we’ll just . . . make other plans.” Arthur—who was currently staring at the floor like it held all the secrets to the universe—felt more than saw Merlin turn to him. “How’s that hotdog stand starting to sound like now?”

Arthur nodded.

“Okay then, thank you.” He moved towards the front door, Arthur trailing after him. “Bye,” he called out to the hostess. Once outside he felt Merlin’s arm slide up around his shoulders, and suddenly the cold or the humiliation didn’t seem too bad. Again, with the touching and the feeling—Merlin had that effect on him.

Merlin sat on the raised brick border of a planted garden, Arthur standing in front of him with their hands still clasped, and the world just seemed to slow. It seemed to steady. A stream of illuminated cars filtered past them, the inside noises of the surrounding cafés and restaurants and pubs muffled, and small spots of lights—lampposts, headlights, wall scones, lighters, hanging chandeliers—were scattered across an otherwise dark landscape.

After a beat, Arthur said, “I’m sorry.”

Merlin looked at him incredulously and soon Arthur felt a gentle pressure alternate from his fingers to his wrist, tugging him closer. But he didn’t acknowledge Merlin’s touch; he couldn’t do that just yet.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is.”

“It’s _not_.” Merlin took his other hand, forcing Arthur to finally look at him—smiling warm and open up at him with eyes so blue the colour just had to be illegal. Arthur’s legs grazed Merlin’s outstretched knees, and he almost shivered at the sensation. It was cold and layers of clothing may have separated bare skin from bare skin, but it didn’t stop the jolt of electricity that ran through Arthur’s body, curling low in his stomach. It suddenly seemed a whole lot more evident that Merlin was sitting down before Arthur—almost kneeling—staring up at him with an expression that couldn’t be described as anything else but intimate.

“I’ll call the limo,” Arthur said quietly, pulling his mobile from his pocket and breaking Merlin’s heated gaze. He still felt like he had to hide his emotions from Merlin, even though he knew every one of his secrets. Even though he knew every one of his fears.

The valet picked up, and after Arthur explained the unfortunate situation to him he was met with a polite rebuttal. He couldn’t pick them up until the allocated time and that was nearly more than two hours away. It made sense to Arthur, and if he was in any other circumstance he’d be perfectly understanding of the valet’s situation, but not tonight. Because tonight he wanted to do everything right—he wanted to make Merlin feel special, like he wasn’t just in this for the ride.

He looked at his said boyfriend, who was watching the soft drift of snowflakes fall to the earth, one hand tucked under his armpit to conserve heat and the other still intertwined with Arthur’s.

Instead of his rage—which had brewing since the hostess had looked up at him and Merlin with reluctance showing as plain as day on her face—coming to a boiling point, as it normally did in situations he didn’t have control of, Arthur didn’t feel the need to do so. In lieu of his newfound enlightenment, he calmly told the valet that he and Merlin would just walk home, and that the hiring company could send him the bill.

Merlin must’ve picked up on his conservation—sneaky bastard—because when Arthur slipped his mobile back into the safety of his pocket, Merlin was there. Noses bumping, lips pressing a feather-light kiss to the curve of a cheek, the skin chilled from the cold.

“Come on,” Merlin whispered against the corner of his mouth. “I have an idea.”

Arthur followed him—he would always follow him, even to the ends of the earth—down the street, to wherever Merlin decided they needed to be. Winding around passing strangers and clumps of solid snow, the two remained connected by the simple interlocking of fingers—the act small, but large in meaning. It was a delightful walk, channelling that Old Town charm with meandering cobblestone paths and stone buildings and naked rosebushes that would bloom in the coming spring, vivid and bright.

Merlin stopped in front of a random store front, where the fluorescent lighting was harsh and a neon sign was attached overhead. Arthur spared a glance at the name of the shop above, a blond eyebrow raised once his gaze returned to Merlin.

“A liquor store?”

Merlin grinned, the sight promising trouble. “It gets better.”

Inside, he browsed the halls, searching through rows of slim, squat, square and rounded bottles, made from a variety of different coloured of glass—dark brown, clear, pale green. Merlin halted, reaching forward to take a select bottle from the shelf and turning towards Arthur.

“Baileys?” Arthur sounded doubtful of Merlin’s choice of drink, and then it clicked—a memory triggered in the back of his mind. “ _Baileys?_ ” He repeated.

Merlin nodded. “Remember the day after my seventeenth birthday? All I got was a jumper from Mum and a true 1st edition of the original 1963 UK Deluxe set of the _Lord Of The Rings_ , published by Allen & Unwin with Pauline Baynes colour ‘Triptych’ artwork from Uncle Gaius.” Arthur nodded his acknowledgment, resting his elbow on a nearby shelf and hand covering his broadening smile. Oblivious, Merlin continued his incessant babbling, “And you seemed to think I deserved more than a simple book—”

Much too quick for his own good, Arthur was quick to rebuff Merlin’s slip of the tongue: “Which you happened to forget to tell me was about two thousand dollars more expensive than I originally thought—”

Merlin ignored him with a too-pleased glint in his eyes. “And mum gave me a jumper I remember you saying once belonged to the Weasely’s—”

“So I stole a bottle of Baileys from my father’s study and—”

“—we snuck into the library,” Merlin finished, grinning full and bright—blindingly so. “We stayed up all night, passing the bottle between us and looking for hidden innuendos in books and quoting Monty Python.”

“That was the first night we snogged, properly,” Arthur blurted out, almost blushing at how much he sounded like a thirteen-year-old pubescent girl. “Or, well, you were laughing so hard at a line from _The Holy Grail_ that you hit your head on the bookcase, jerked forward, and practically butted heads with me.”

“Now that’s what you call romance.”

“You nearly broke my nose, then kissed me senseless in a span of two minutes, and _then_ threw up on my shoes.” Arthur deadpanned, and then considering a thought, he added, “All whilst I was about ready to cream my fucking jeans you total _arse_.”

Merlin had the decency to look sheepish. “So,” he said, holding up the bottle in an innocent shrug that was all parts gawky-Merlin-boy-charm, “is a little blast from the past in order?”

Arthur couldn’t hide it anymore—he stepped close to Merlin, smiling so hard it hurt. “Always.”

They paid for the bottle of Baileys and started to make their way to the east side of town, where Gaius owned a quaint little bookstore that doubled as a backdoor apothecary shop, dabbling in herbal remedies and whatnot. At the door to the shop Merlin struggled to work the lock open, already tipsy from the few sips of booze he swigged from the open bottle. Arthur’s tie was loosened, his unusually messy hair mused from an impromptu snog in a dark alleyway.

“Here,” Arthur said—he _did not_ slur—and wrestled the key from Merlin. He opened the door in no less than two minutes; bowing dramatically—and almost slipping on half-melted slush—as Merlin passed him.

The pair stumbled inside, enveloped in the warm blanket of security the bookstore offered. The stale air of aged books and well-worn pages filled Arthur’s sinus, and Merlin felt compelled to run his fingers over the spines of his most treasured books, and both were lulled into a relaxed state they only found in the solace of each other’s company.

Hidden in the corner of the store, flanked by a right-angle of tall, wooden bookcases, there was a semi-circle of leather armchairs in the back, including a felt lounge. It was a secluded spot, comfortable and quiet, but the feeling was now increased tenfold in the dead of night. Merlin took position on the lounge, sprawling out like a cat in the midst of stretching. Arthur sat with his back propped up against the chair, his boyfriend’s leg hooked casually over his shoulder.

They spent the rest of the night sharing the bottle between them, their tongues coated with a thick, creamy that reminded Arthur of a night spent in a different library, but with the exact same person. Inspired, and still a tad buzzed, it was almost impossible for Arthur to manoeuvre himself onto the lounge, but he managed. He slipped between Merlin’s outstretched limbs, falling gladly into the embrace.

“Merlin?” he asked softly, resisting the urge to burrow into his boyfriend’s exposed neck.

“Hmm?” Merlin’s eyes remained closed, but his hand found the front of Arthur’s dress shirt and worked the buttons open—which was a feat in his near drunken state. His fingertips dragged over the smooth, golden skin, lingering on the dusting of chest hair and defined muscles.

Arthur repressed a shudder, already feeling the effects of Merlin’s touch stirring within him—which was pretty flowery code for him getting a hard-on. “Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?”

Merlin’s chest rumbled with laughter, the sound loud and beautiful. “Not at all,” he replied with a stately air of self-imposed importance—the true form of a king. “They could be carried.”

“What?” Arthur mimicked the sound of an indignant, boorish guard. “A swallow carrying a coconut?”

“It could grip it by the husk!”

“It’s not a question of where he _grips_ it—” Merlin dissolved into a bout of laughter, and Arthur was quick to join him. The silent bookstore was filled with smothered laughter—uncontrollable laughter, the kind that bubbles up inside you before spilling out, almost infectious in its mirth. It echoed throughout the building, bouncing off the dust-covered surfaces, the sound causing something to settle low and sweet in Arthur and Merlin’s chests, a wave of something solid, intimate, and real.

There it was again—that simple, basic contentment. It washed over them both, pure and clean and good. Light-headed with the buzz of spirits, warm with the promise of hope and security, bound with love—Arthur and Merlin’s laughter soon subsided to muffled chuckles and then quieted altogether. It was a comfortable silence, absent of the mundane need to be filled with useless small talk. Arthur settled on Merlin’s chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt in a loose fist. And Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur’s head in a soothing gesture, like he was a child in need of soothing. It wasn’t a sexual thing, it was deeper than that—it meant more than that. It was love.

Arthur sighed, knowing that this—Merlin, the bookstore, cloaked in the dark of night—was the real thing. And he began to wonder if maybe his first attempt at doing something big and romantic hadn’t ended in as much disaster as he first thought.

*

Arthur’s second attempt was something much more localised, something that was in his comfort zone—a dinner and a show. It was a candlelight dinner at their apartment, punctuated by a soft swell of music and a movie afterwards— _Lord Of The Rings_ , of course.

Arthur preferred _Two Towers_ as it was devoid of a ploddingly slow pace—like _The Fellowship_ —or a somewhat tedious conclusion—as in _Return Of The King_. He just thought Peter Jackson was a master of action rather than the lead-ups or the winding-downs, but since he remained a great director and J. R. R. Tolkien an even better storyteller, the combination was magic nonetheless. But Merlin liked The _Return Of The King_ better—something about a happy endings resonated with him—so that was Arthur’s final choice.

He wasn’t even going to get close to _The Hobbit_ , not without a ten foot pole—not within the same year as watching _Battle Of The Five Armies_ for the first time, gripping Merlin’s hand so hard it bruised. Arthur had always related to Thorin—his destructive pride and nobility and loss of purpose—and it didn’t escape him how much Merlin reminded him of Bilbo—his endearing character, quiet yet courageous, and all parts studious.

Pushing his thoughts of Middle Earth aside, Arthur focused on the task at hand. He had pushed the round kitchen table—Morgana delighted in the fact that Arthur owned a _round_ table—up to the window, smoothing a satin tablecloth over the surface. It was a little awkward organising a romantic setting with his bastard half-sister, but Arthur was thankful for Morgana’s assistance. Until she alluded to how a dinner and a show usually served as a prelude to a romantic endeavour of the most carnal kind. Morgana was always doing that, making snide little comments that didn’t outright state things but stung just the same. She seemed to miss out on that filter from her mouth to her brain, and her words were usually either too brash or too sharp.

“Lionel Richie?” Arthur prompted, holding the album up in question.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t let Merlin fuck you to the smooth molasses sounds of ‘Hello’ _._ ” She turned to Arthur dramatically, invisible microphone held to her mouth and her familiar karaoke-night game face on. “ _Is it me you’re looking for? I can see it in your eyes; I can see it in your smile. You are all I’ve ever wanted, and now my arms are open wide_ —”

Arthur was swift to cut her off—his eardrums were already bleeding. “Stop it. You’re incorrigible.”

Morgana smirked. “So, what’s planned for dinner?”

“Lamb Wellingtons with a beetroot and onion relish for mains, followed by peach and raspberry queen of pudding as dessert—”

“Taste.com?”

“Yeah,” Arthur admitted. “It was the first two recipes on there.”

“And drinks?”

“Some sort of French wine.” He said, pulling a bottle out of the fridge and holding it up as evidence.

“Red?”

“Yeah.”

Although her words were blunt, Morgana was still grinning. “Look at you Arthur Pendragon, all grown up and ready to charm the pants off your awkward yet oddly cute boyfriend.”

“He’s not awkward,” Arthur argued, leaning down to check the pastry hadn’t burnt in the oven.

“You’re right,” Morgana deadpanned, “he’s downright ridiculous.”

“Sod _off_.”

She was gone half an hour later, which was much too long in Arthur’s opinion—he was sick of her three hours ago. Morgana was like microwave radiation, she was only good in small doses and otherwise deadly. Arthur had left the Lamb Wellingtons to cool on the stovetop and was now spooning the previously prepared beetroot and onion relish onto the waiting plates. He and Merlin had bought them second-hand; both were different colours and size, one chipped around the edges. Arthur may have been trying to plan a romantic dinner for two, but that didn’t mean the occasion couldn’t be normal.

By the time Merlin had knocked off work Arthur had everything set up and ready to go. Two long scented candles were aflame on the table, the lamb resting on warmed plates and wine glasses brimming with a fragrant red liquid that made Arthur’s mouth water. The queen pudding was chilling in the fridge in one large bowl Arthur planned to share with Merlin—he almost snorted aloud at how sappy that sounded. He’d also borrowed a mixed tape from his best mate Lancelot and now the sweet, soft jazz of Michael Bublé filled the room. Romance was one thing, but perfection was another—and Arthur had achieved just that.

But, as Arthur again listened to the sound of a set of keys jingling in the lock, a sense of impending dread crawled into the back of his mind, festering there. He always worried that Merlin would wake up one day and realise just how big an arsehole Arthur was, and walk out the front door without a second glance. So when he tried to do something nice and romantic an undercurrent of fear—sharp and distinct—ran parallel to that feeling of tentative hope.

The door opened and Merlin nearly fell forward, tripping over his own feet and an envelope dangling from between his lips. Arthur stood, his posture stiff and his expression stricken. Merlin dropped his keys and mail onto the kitchen counter before raising his head, his blue gaze finding Arthur’s, and then sliding to the candlelight dinner behind him.

“Arthur?” he asked, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

“I made—” Words failed Arthur, and he scrambled to find the right ones—anything. “I made— I made dinner,” he managed, never having felt more inadequate and stupid than in this moment.

Merlin’s face was blank for a second, and Arthur’s heart plummeted, his dreams shattering into a million pieces and then he was moving backwards, needing to run, needing to escape—

“Arthur,” Merlin said, already reaching for the cuff of his sleeve.

Arthur looked up and—

—It was okay. Merlin was smiling—his teeth glinting in the dim lighting and his blinding happiness evident in the crinkle at the corners of his mouth, in the sparkle in his eyes—and it was _okay_. Arthur let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, relief finally taking place of a mass of nerves roiling in his stomach.

“Do you like it?” he asked pitifully.

Merlin was practically ecstatic; face split in half by his toothy smile; his feather-soft touch on the curve of Arthur’s hand electric—Arthur didn’t even know it was there until he was staring down at it, dumbly.

“Do I like it?” Merlin repeated, eyebrows raised. “What do you think, you big git?”

When Arthur didn’t answer—when he couldn’t answer—Merlin took matters into his own hands. He lunged forward, crashing their lips together. It was wet and sloppy and glorious, and every single doubt that plagued Arthur’s mind vanished in mere seconds. Because this was Merlin—this was his Merlin. The boy who bought him flowers on his first date and dragged him outside every time the sky rained snow and read J. R. R. Tolkien aloud to him when Arthur couldn’t sleep.

When the two pulled apart—Arthur too flustered for his own good and Merlin’s wide grin threatening to break loose—Arthur said, “We should eat. It’ll get cold.”

Merlin’s hand ghosted over the waistband of his pants, brushing against Arthur’s bare skin. He gasped at the contact, unable to stifle the sound. He had been tense all night, and Merlin’s big smiles and quick, gentle fingers had set every of his nerves ablaze.

“You sure?”

“Merlin,” Arthur warned, gripping Merlin’s hair and pulling him back gently, “I did not slave over the stove for four hours for a quickie.”

“Four hours?” Merlin sounded impressed, and a tad amused. He was teasing now, that utter dollophead.

“You try making pastry from scratch. It’s impossible.” He argued, that complete clotpole.

“So a new career path in baking is definitely not in your future then?”

“As much as shagging is for you unless you remove your hand from my arse.”

Merlin delivered one last kiss to his lips before acquiescing. Arthur repressed the urge to slap the back of his head as he held the chair out for Merlin like a proper gentleman and laid a napkin across his lap. Arthur watched as his boyfriend—his ridiculous, unbelievable, amazing boyfriend—took the first bite of lamb and let out a noise that should’ve been illegal in Arthur’s opinion.

“You made this?” Merlin asked, already halfway through his meal with his elbows planted firmly on the table and obscenely sucking the grease from his fingers—Arthur tried to block that image from his mind. As much as Arthur wanted to bend Merlin over the table and have his wicked way with him, this wasn’t a quick, insignificant bonk, so he staved off from those types of urges—for the moment.

“Uh-huh.” A bumbling, awkward mess had taken place of the usual prim, proper and articulate Arthur. Something about the look on Merlin’s face—the pure, unadulterated love and affection and gratitude—made him soft in the head. He wasn’t complaining though, and when Merlin’s foot nudged his like they were still in boarding school, his own crooked smile mirrored Merlin’s—small and private and intimate.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his hand finding Arthur’s and entwining their fingers.

“I couldn’t breathe for a few minutes there,” he blurted out, flushing at his own admission.

Merlin’s answer was short but nonetheless sweet: “I know.”

Arthur scrunched his eyes shut and banished everything from his mind that wasn’t Merlin, and only then was he able to sit down and have dinner with his boyfriend—the act just as simple as it sounded. The two finished the Lamb Wellingtons in a comfortable silence, broken only by intermittent smiles and too-long stares and whispered confessions for their ears alone.

“Spandau Ballet? Really?” Merlin asked from his seat at the table, head tilted to the side as he listened to the intro of ‘True’ filtering through the apartment.

“And?” Arthur prompted, pulling the queen pudding from the fridge and fishing two silver spoons from the cutlery drawer.

“Are we in a John Hughes movie?”

Arthur repressed a smirk, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice sounded faraway, like he was distracted—although it wasn’t an uncommon feat when it came to him. He could be distracted by a fly on the wall for a good ten minutes.

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna dance?”

He cast Merlin a curious glance, a crease between his brows. But upon seeing Merlin’s face—high on the feeling of love, a corner of his mouth quirked in a smile and swaying to the sounds of ‘True’—he knew that it wasn’t a question. He was going to dance with Merlin, there were doubts about it.

Arthur stepped in front of Merlin, tipping his chin up to look at him. “Merlin Emrys, would you do me the pleasure of dancing with my sorry arse?”

The blinding sight of Merlin’s smile damn near killed him. “I do,” he said, his voice soft.

Arthur offered his hand, and Merlin took it gladly. His hand came to curl around Merlin’s lean, narrow waist, resting against the dip of his lower back, the other intertwining with his boyfriend’s fingers. And Merlin laid his palm against the curve of Arthur’s toned bicep, holding their outstretched hands to the side, in front of them. Their bodies were pressed flush together—golden, tanned limbs against slim, pale ones. It was heat, and touch, and the smell of faded paper and crisp winter air—and it was sweet, endearingly so.

Arthur looked up, bumping his nose with Merlin’s since they were so close. A soft laugh emanated from Merlin’s chest, and Arthur felt a smile curl against the skin of his cheek—unable to stop himself from doing the same thing. He gazed—there is no other word for it, he _gazed_ —into Merlin’s eyes, losing himself in that round blue disc of colour, bright and sparkling, feeling a pull to him that as downright tangible. It had always been there—a tether that seemed to defy the laws of time and memory itself—connecting the two together in a way they didn’t quite understand, but accepted nonetheless.

“I love you.” At first Arthur thought Merlin had spoken the words, but he soon recognised the voice as his own. He pulled back a little, shock registering in his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Merlin—that was the understatement of the century—he was just taught that feeling that way was wrong from a young age. He rested his head in the crook of Merlin’s neck, almost dejectedly, feeling an increasing pressure build behind his temples.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin said it so softly it was almost impossible to hear the waver in his voice—the undercurrent raw emotion. “I love you too.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to do anything else but apologise. Pathetically. Stupidly. “I’m sorry I have to ruin a perfectly normal moment by just being here.”

“I said I love you.”

Arthur didn’t hear him. “I’m sorry I can’t be a good boyfriend.”

“I love you.”

“I’m sorry I’m not the person you want me to be—”

“Arthur fucking Pendragon you listen to me,” it was Merlin’s turn to talk now. His jaw was raised in a strong jut and his eyes were serious, but his tone was gentle. “I do not care what self-deprecating thoughts are flying around in your head, making you think you don’t deserve me or whatnot, because I love you.” Arthur knew that—he just had trouble accepting it. “I love every single bit of you—from the way your hair looks in a morning to your weird fetishes for pretty-boy elves to the way your hands feel on the base of my spine.” When he reframed from taking initiative, Merlin moved Arthur’s hands around his waist to where they fit into place on the small of Merlin’s back. “And”—his mouth was close to Arthur’s ear—“I love the sound of your breath in my ear”—his lips dipped to the skin below his hairline—“and how it feels against my skin”—his tongue darted out, teasing—“and even though you’re so close, you still manage to kiss me.”

It wasn’t clear if it was Arthur to turn his head and catch Merlin’s lips with his own, or if it was the other way around, but soon they were kissing. The movement lacked finesse, it was fast and desperate and deep. It was the last kiss of a dying man, starved of all things good in his life save for this one, blissful moment. Merlin pushed Arthur up against the wall, his nimble fingers working deftly at his belt between intermittent touches to his cheek, reassuring Arthur that he was okay—that they were still there.

Arthur paused; his breathing ragged and voice rough. “Merlin?”

“Yeah?” Their foreheads were pressed together, their mouths a hairs width apart, although every other part of their bodies—arms, legs, torso, feet, hands—were entangled, entwined, linked in one way or another. Even though Merlin was right there, a real and tangible weight and warmth quivering beneath his fingertips, Arthur was still scared he would lose him. He was always scared. He was scared that Merlin would pull back, that his face would twist into an expression of indifference, that he’d finally grow sick of Arthur— _anything_.

“I love you,” he whispered, this time without the words twisting half way up in his chest.

“Arthur—”

“I do,” he rasped. He was wrecked; feeling like his chest had been pulled open and was bleeding out in front of him.  “I love you so fucking much it hurts. I do, Merlin, I _do_.”

“I know, Arthur—I know you love me, okay?”

“Are you sure?” He was still aching, bursting at the seams, so close to breaking. He was fragile, nothing more than a glass body occupied by emotions and wrung-out nerves. Every fibre of his being just wanted to grab Merlin and hold him close for the next thousand years, content to just exist with Merlin rather than to be with him.

“I’m sure.” His voice was lighter now, the smallest shred of his usual amusement creeping back in.

Arthur’s was softer, too. “Positive?”

“As the day is long.”

They had stopped their furious actions now, the need to reach forward and touch and feel and be as close as physically possible was fading. The coarse scratch of Arthur’s stubble had burned Merlin’s lips, marking his lips red and swollen, and there was a purple bruise blooming on the side of Arthur’s neck. Their breathing was uneven and their bodies were flushed with the throbbing heat of desire and their souls were far too close to being exposed.

Merlin moved forward; following the line of Arthur’s head as it fell backwards, thudding against the wall. Merlin waited for Arthur, watching him with a faint, heartening smile, ensuring it was his choice in the matter—but there was no doubt, there never was. His fingers flitted up the side of Merlin’s smooth, long neck, his touch dancing over skin, eliciting a trail of goose-bumps in their wake. There his hands remained, cradling Merlin like he was something precious, thumbs brushing the bottom of his jaw. His head dipped down, lips soft against lips. Arthur’s kiss was chaste and close-mouthed, slow and gentle, like he was trying to soothe over each hurt he had caused, each wrongdoing.

Merlin’s hands were an anchoring pressure on Arthur’s upper arms, his sharp hipbones pinning him flat to the wall. Legs entangled, tripping over feet as their torsos pressed close and warm against one another, noses knocking and laughter following. It wasn’t sexual, not even close to it—instead it was intimate, more comforting than erotic.

Arthur thought he heard Merlin whisper his name, the breath of air against his mouth telling him so, but the apartment was absent of noise. It was quiet save for the wet, soft sounds of mouths melding together, fingers pulling at the roots of hair or fisting handfuls of fabric, the low drone of Frank Sinatra lulling the two into a wordless understanding.

They pulled back, still surrounded in a blurry haze of tender kissing, fond looks and unguarded smiles.

Merlin bent forward to place a kiss on the point of Arthur’s cheekbone, and Arthur’s hand curled at the base of Merlin’s neck, nosing the side of his dark head like an affectionate, attention-seeking puppy.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And it was perfect, until—

—The tape cut off midway through the sound of 1950s jazz, Gwaine’s—Lance’s best friend and resident show pony—voice filed the apartment, loud and endearingly obnoxious: “Hey lovebirds, I heard someone’s getting shagged tonight! And for once it’s not me . . . Huh, talk about parallel universes—Okay, so Lance may have let slip that you two gay boys were borrowing his Disgustingly Romantic Mix Tape to profess your love for each other or John Barrowman or whatever you blokes do, so I thought some good tunes were in order.” Arthur’s face was an expression of exasperated—yet amused—irritation, and Merlin was barely fighting off a wild grin. Their moment was over, but another had taken its place, and it was just as good.

“And what better music is there than the golden era of the 80s?” Gwaine asked.

And then, the Weather Girl’s ‘It’s Raining Men’ broke out over the stereo system.

“Gwaine,” Arthur seethed, “you absolute _pillock_.”

Merlin snorted a laugh, covering his open mouth with a hand. “Come on, it’s just Gwaine.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s the bloody Queen of England, I’d still sock him.”

Merlin looked at him, his wide grin already threatening to split his face in half. He pulled back, already starting to dance—although it more resembled a seizure that was vaguely in sync to the beat than dancing. All arms and no legs, Merlin was a sight to see—long limbs and gawky movements, yet it didn’t matter one bit because he was _happy_. It was one of the many, many things Arthur loved about Merlin, his ability to just let go of all his restricted inhibitions and just be his own self. His big, kind, funny, smart, stupid, ridiculous, too-good-for-Arthur, has-great-bone-structure-and-a-penchant-for-neckties self.

“Arthur?” Merlin prompted, slowly bringing his invisible microphone down to his mouth after executing a particularly dramatic Freddie Mercury-esque fist pump, his blue-blue eyes practically alight.

“Yeah?”

His voice was small, fragile: “Dance with me?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, his hands planted firmly on hips, but the subtle step he took toward his big oaf of a boyfriend didn’t escape Merlin’s keen eye. Soon he had undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and then his shirt cuffs, kicking his shoes off with a flourish, and skidding over to Merlin on his socks—Tom Cruise didn’t have shit on him. Merlin laughed, throwing his head back and exposing the long, smooth expanse of a neck. Arthur kissed him there, savouring the taste of his skin before doing whatever the hell he wanted in the privacy of his apartment, with the man he loved, and no thoughts to why.

Gwaine’s playlist went as follows:

‘Long Black Road’ by ELO included rhythmic head-banging, the removal of pants in the fashion of a rodeo cowboy, and pointing at a random points in the room at pivotal moments in the song.

‘Take On Me’ by a-ha included running about the apartment like they had escaped the mundane existence of reality by travelling through a comic book portal, lost in a world of pencil-sketch animation, crashing into each other every five seconds and laughing so hard their stomachs hurt.

‘Sexual Healing’ by Marvin Gaye included the slow grinding of hips, first with Merlin pressed to Arthur’s back and a grin cast over his shoulder, sliding to the floor in an action that was much too sexy for his liking, and then they were face-to-face with hands gripping at the hard points of hips and searching mouths sealed in wet, sloppy, graceless kisses and soon it wasn’t dancing at all.

No, it something _much_ more fun than dancing.

*

“A cottage? Really?” Merlin—for once—sounded sceptical of Arthur’s romantic notions, but his usual amusement remained. “People still do that? Like, go on dates? In the _countryside_? Don’t you remember that _Torchwood_ episode we watched where a bunch of cannibals—”

“Do you want to spend two days alone in a cottage, probably shagging, or not?”

That got his boyfriends attention, so much so that Arthur practically saw his big, dumb ears perk up.

“Two whole days?” Merlin repeated with a familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes. Arthur pointedly ignored him, even when Merlin sucked in his lower lip, tongue darting out to wet his full, sensual mouth, the mere sight sending a spike of heat straight to Arthur’s groin.

“Not here,” Arthur warned, turning his gaze to the round ceramic mug in his hands. He could sense rather than see Merlin’s jubilant laughter or his blindingly happy grin. Arthur repressed a simple upward curl of the lips, distracting himself with the local newspaper spread out in front of him.

The small, bohemian café bustled with vibrant, fast-moving life around them. Their good mate Percival—a man with a bigger smile than his muscles—owned the place, and even though he was built like a wall of bricks he had a hidden talent for baked goods and public relations, so The Round Table was born—as in Knights of the Round Table. It was a little running joke between their group of friends, especially since most of them shared the same names as the King of the Britons and his disciples.

The Round Table wasn’t located more than two blocks from the bookstore where Merlin worked, which was a brisk five minute walk if Merlin didn’t take four times longer to sidestep clumps of snow or stop to point out something that struck him as particularly beautiful or to sneak kisses—that cheeky bastard—from Arthur. The Pendragon heir may have grumbled and complained the entire trek there, but not even the biting cold or the weird looks strangers sent him could dampen his spirits—not with Merlin’s hand jammed in his back pocket and private, fond whispers in his ear.

So, it was a tad too public a place for Merlin to get Arthur hard with his mere—yet entirely wicked—tongue. Instead, Arthur sipped his full-strength, soy milk macchiato and continued to read an article about mysterious occurrences plaguing the Lake of Avalon—something about a blonde bloke arising naked from the water, rescued by an old bearded guy who suddenly changed into a man sixty years younger. It was a little too fantastical for Arthur’s taste, but interesting nonetheless—

And that was Merlin’s hand in his lap.                             

Arthur threw him a withering glare, reaching down to extract Merlin’s fingers from his inner thigh.

At that moment—with Merlin’s not-so-subtle hand resting in Arthur’s lap and their gazes locked—Elyan happened to walk past them. A black apron was tied around his waist, his dark hair was shorn close to his head, and expertly carrying a tray of empty glasses and mugs as he navigated a sea of tables. “This is a family place, you two.” He warned, almost a little too serious for his own good. “No tomfoolery allowed.”

“We’re not doing anything—”

Merlin cut in, all smiles. “You know I can’t keep my hands off him, Elyan.”

Arthur removed Merlin’s hand from his crotch in a death grip, his glare sour enough to curdle milk. Merlin was barely holding in his laughter, intertwining Arthur’s reluctant fingers and pressing an innocent kiss to the back of their joined hands. Arthur almost considered pulling away—but he couldn’t deny Merlin anything, not when his touch elicited a swell of something good and sweet in his chest. Elyan cast them one last cautionary look—eyes serious, brow raised, a smirk pulling at his lips—before absconding to the kitchen.

“Nice one, Merlin,” Arthur chastised. “You almost got us thrown out of a café for indecent conduct.”

He grinned in response.

“So, what was this I hear about shagging in cottages?”

A week and a half later, Arthur and Merlin were on the road, the speakers of Morgana’s borrowed car on the highest volume possible, blaring out the lyrics to a song they didn’t know the words too. Outside, the countryside moved past them in a languid green blur—an endless wave of undulating hills stretching out over a various patchwork of pastures and hedges. The air was clear and the sky was thick with grey clouds and it was almost a nice day to be outside—well, as nice as it could be in rainy ol’ miserable Britain.

Somehow—Arthur has literally no idea how, at all—Merlin had managed to arrange his gangly limbs into a cross-legged position in the passenger seat next to his boyfriend. He wore sunglasses—again, Arthur doesn’t know why since there was a very likely chance Merlin was a vampire—and drummed his hands on the dashboard to the beat of the song—out of tune, mind you—and performed—Arthur used that term loosely—his own personal take on the lyrics.

“ _Arthur can’t drive a car, drive a car, drive a car,”_ he sung _. “His skills don’t stretch very far, far, far. He really can’t drive a car. Trust me when I say he can’t drive a car. And the only thing that rhymes with ‘car’ is ‘far’ and”—_ Merlin’s big musical debut was halted in lieu of the lack of rhyming words— _“‘bar’. So we should really go to a bar, bar, bar . . .”_

Arthur glanced over at Merlin, physically unable to restrain his smile—not when Merlin was grinning right back at him. They could’ve been balancing on the knifes edge of death, maybe floating on a raft in the middle of the Atlantic ocean after their luxury cruise liner rammed head-first into an iceberg or something, and as long as Merlin could look over at him and smile then so could Arthur.

“You finished yet, turnip head?”

Merlin feigned a look of mock outrage. “How dare you refer to me in such a lowly term of endearment?”

His boyfriend’s smile was wry, affectionate. “You big git.”

“You wound me.”

Arthur cocked a blond eyebrow, his arrogance near palpable.

“Do you really want to do this?” The tone of Merlin’s voice changed, deepened, turning into something much more dangerous, and his teeth flashed, biting down on his succulent lower lip. In all honesty, Arthur tried to focus on the road—he did—but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Merlin’s mouth, lingering on the sweet pink flesh. Arthur shifted in his seat, his pants suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“Arthur,” Merlin chided, tipping his head towards his boyfriend’s sudden—and inconvenient—arousal. “Don’t you think you have more pressing matters than assuaging your libido? Like—for better use of an example—driving,” he said innocently, reaching up to scratch his day-old stubble, the action exposing the hard curve of a collarbone.

Arthur scanned the twisting road ahead, scrutinising the non-existent traffic and the limited room he had to pull over. He settled on the little spot behind a chance tree, somewhat shrouded from the public eye, but not before he felt a pressure slid across his thigh—

It was Merlin’s hand, his artful fingers curling high on his leg, squeezing. His touch travelled upwards, meek in pace but serious in intent. Arthur clenched his jaw to keep from groaning aloud, or even risking a glance at Merlin, and his foot slammed down on the accelerator, gliding into the cover of the tree in mere seconds. Before the car had even begun to idle, Arthur had launched himself across the seat, crashing his mouth to Merlin’s, seeking something to push back and retaliate—a fight for dominance.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasped against his lips, his breath scorching-hot on his skin.

Arthur cut him off with a kiss, needing a reprieve from this torture. It was always Merlin who could drive Arthur insane with a well-placed touch—a sucking kiss behind his ear, nosing at his hair, or an arm curled around his waist and a sharp hipbone pressing into his side—and have him begging for release in seconds— but Merlin was at Arthur’s complete and utter mercy once he took charge. Although Arthur was shy and inhibited when it came to the matters of the heart, Merlin was able to elicit a response in him that no one else could—he was meant to be moulded and teased beneath Arthur’s hands, his body complaint but eager. Because here, grasping for some form of purchase in the cramped space of a car, Arthur felt safe and needed and, most important of all, loved.

“Bloody gearstick,” Arthur swore, leaning so far over the cursed object jutted up hard into his abdomen. He tried manoeuvring the thing around but to no avail, all the while Merlin strained to kiss his lips, hands gripping at the lapels of his windbreaker. Fingers gripped tight in Merlin’s hair, tongue over the pulse in his neck, Arthur gritted his teeth and thought _fuck it_. His sex-addled brain didn’t care to think how awkward or impractical it was, lumbering from his seat and over the centre console to land heavily in Merlin’s lap. He just needed that gratification, that insatiable craving of something more—that restful weight low in his stomach, that golden spread of warmth blooming in his chest.

He fumbled with Merlin’s belt buckle, unable to comprehend much past the feel of Merlin’s lips, or the pair of hands gripping his arse, pressing their pelvises flush together. Arthur groaned at the contact, vaguely registering the same sound ripped from Merlin’s throat. Their kisses were hard, demanding. There was no softness or room left for doubt to grow and fester, the message was clear—their want was tangible. One of Merlin’s hands slid up his back, digging into the flesh beneath the layer of clothing. Arthur’s own hands were on Merlin’s shoulders, then neck, then the angular shape of his cheek. Needing more, he ground his hips down, the sudden feeling of friction almost so good his vision blacked. His hand shot out, the taught line of his arm pressed to the cold window pane and the other gripping the headrest to hold himself together, repeating the action for the desired effect.

“Arthur,” Merlin said again, pleading, desperate and hoarse.

He threw his head back, grunting, his mind a fog of misplaced thoughts and sentences.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, a note of something else in his voice.

Arthur rolled his hips again, oblivious to Merlin’s lack of response.

“ _Arthur_.”

This time he listened, head snapping up to find Merlin was looking to the side—locked on something outside. He followed his gaze, noticing the shocked, embarrassed, familiar face staring at them, a few mere centimetres of space and a window pane separating them.

“Uh . . .” Arthur was incapable of normal coherent speech, every fibre of his being screaming at him to keep _moving_ against Merlin, seeking completion or friction or just _something_.

“Get off,” Merlin hissed, colour rising high on his cheeks.

More petulant than ashamed, Arthur fumbled back into his seat whilst trying—and failing—to hide how much he just wanted to climb back into Merlin’s lap, regardless of who was watching. Merlin smoothed his hair down in frantic strokes, resting his hands between his legs to hide the evidence of his arousal, and hesitantly reached outward to roll down the window.

“Um . . . I . . .” Leon—it just had to be Leon, the practical, pragmatic, overall-clad Leon—started, uncomfortable and flushing red. “I thought you were in trouble”—he coughed, knowing that’s the last thing they were—“and when I recognised your car and saw your flat tyre I—”

“What?” Arthur cut in, slowly regaining a sense of logic.

Leon blinked. “Your back tyre is flat.”

“Wait, let me see,” he stumbled out of the car to assess the situation, discovering Leon was telling the truth. The back left tyre was flat, having been pierced with a small branch when Arthur had pulled over; too preoccupied with Merlin to really look where he was going.

His expression was so helpless Leon was forced to offer them a lift to wherever they were going, the circumstances of their meeting forgotten—Leon would probably only be missed at his farm or Morgana’s bed. He allowed Arthur to use his mobile to call the local towing company. Merlin was a blubbering mess around their savour, abashed, unable to meet his eyes without blushing an attractive shade of red. Arthur appeased the red-hot flow of blood pumping through his veins by placing a hand on Merlin’s lower back, promising to finish their romantic interlude tonight. The stoic Leon was, for once, almost shy, and he quietly invited them to all jam into the front seat of his car, the air thick for a few moments before breaking at the sound of Arthur’s laughter, Merlin and Leon soon following him.

When he dropped them off at the cottage they had booked for the night their ribs ached, cheeks pulled tight into an omnipresent smile. Leon bid them farewell with a wave out the side of his window, promising to go for a pint later. Once his taillights had disappeared a gush of air escaped Merlin, his forehead dropping to Arthur’s shoulder.

Merlin sighed. “Well, that was singlehandedly the most awkward twenty minutes of my entire life.”

“Not even when Gwaine walked in on us at his place?” Arthur probed, his arm coming up around Merlin’s shoulders on instinct. A calm settled over Arthur then, his shoulders dropping and the tension in his stomach loosening—as long as he was with Merlin he knew everything would be alright.

“He shouldn’t have asked us to help him move out of his death trap apartment,” Merlin argued, “especially not the day after you got back from that lonely three week business trip.”

Arthur snorted. “ _I_ wanted to have a shower, _you_ wanted to shag.”

Merlin’s chin tipped up, his lips curved into a rueful smile in response, tugging Arthur closer by the collar of his jacket. Arthur also felt compelled to push him away, just to see his reaction—especially after their particularly serious snog was so rudely interrupted and left them both raw and reeling, denied their most basic need. Merlin leaned closer, so close Arthur could almost feel his lips on his when—

“Mr. Pendragon?” A voice asked, quiet.

Arthur turned towards the noise, and Merlin’s mouth ended up in his hair. He heard a frustrated groan and an exasperated, “Cockblocked on all sides.” Arthur hid his grin before directing his attention to the middle-aged woman standing at the gate to the cottage. He hadn’t noticed the cottage before—it was English in every sense of the word: quaint, made of a rough stone with a squat chimney, the window frames painted a forest green and tresses of flowers growing up the walls—or the three cars parked beside it. His brow furrowed, confused—Arthur thought only he and Merlin would be in the general vicinity of the place for the entire weekend.

“Mr. Pendragon?” The voice repeated, the woman looking both apologetic and harried.

“Yes?” he prompted, disentangling himself form Merlin and smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes, reverting to the professional, polite, put-together man he was groomed to be.

“I’m sorry, but we—” She looked down, obviously wrestling with something internally. “The cottage’s pipes broke during the night and the floor flooded. We’re trying to rectify the situation but, unfortunately, it’s impossible to allow you and your partner to stay here at the moment.”

Arthur ignored how his stomach dropped, the leaden weight of disappointment and anger hanging heavy. A pressure built in his temples, threatening to crush him, but Arthur plastered on a smile and assured her it was okay—a full refund and all travel and accommodation expenses would be provided for. She set them up with a night in a local tavern called The Rising Sun. Details and names were sorted and arranged, all the while a feeling of defeat gnawed on Arthur, eating him alive. And he didn’t think he could’ve done it without Merlin’s hand pressed to the small of his back or his low voice whispering sweet nothings in his ear, acting as a reliable comfort throughout the whole exchange.

It was dark when they reached The Rising Sun, a small but homey little establishment. The interior was constructed from dark, robust wood; ale and beer and various other liquids having seeped into the cracks between the boards over the years; the room full of merriment that Arthur had been devoid of in the past two hours—some patrons yelling at the football match on the TV or others siting at the bar, seated on high stools or low chairs, all laughing and smiling and carrying on.

“Want a pint?” Merlin asked, at home in his natural environment—surrounded with people.

“No.” Arthur shook his head, rubbing at the tiredness behind his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“You right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” his answer was a little curt, his irritation shining through.

“Arthur—” Merlin started.

“Let’s just go to bed, okay?”

He nodded, and in no less than ten minutes they had crossed the threshold into their small room on the top floor. It was dim; the minimal light revealing two narrow beds, a cupboard, desk, lamp and a door to the adjoining bathroom. It wasn’t much, but it served their most basic needs. Arthur shut the door and discarded his bags onto the floor, falling into bed. There was a beat of silence, Merlin’s gaze lingering on Arthur’s back, before the rustle of fabric broke the bubble of quiet. Arthur heard Merlin glide past him, his footsteps brisk, to the small window on the other side of the room. He lifted his head to track his movements, watching as Merlin parted the curtains to peer outside, a sliver of crescent moonlight illuminating the cobblestone street below. Merlin had been somewhat dull throughout the period of the afternoon, flashing Arthur weak smiles whenever he looked to him for reassurance, and Arthur had begun to hate how his pitiful romantic endeavours always seemed to end in failure.

Discouraged, Arthur shifted, resting on the pillow of his arms and limbs sprawled out in every which way over the bedcover, wanting nothing more than to sleep and forget all which had transpired today. He sensed Merlin turning to look at him, and soon a kiss was placed on the crown of his head, gentle fingers ruffling his blonde hair in an affectionate gesture. He leaned into the touch, desperate for Merlin’s fingertips to soothe the storm inside him—like it always did.

“I’ll be in the shower,” Merlin whispered, the warmth and comfort of his body retreating from Arthur. He almost whimpered at the loss of contact, propping his head up on his elbow to stare after Merlin. He was standing in front of the window in the bathroom, running a quick hand through his dark, unkempt hair before stripping his shirt off. Arthur couldn’t help it—he made a noise of appreciation, his hungry gaze skimming over the slim length of his boyfriend’s body, lingering on the flat expanse of his lean stomach and angular hipbones and the arms and shoulders corded with muscle

He noticed Merlin looking at him, a corner of his mouth curled into a tempting smile. “Are you gonna join me or just enjoy the show from afar, my lord?” he asked, his tone posing a challenge.

Arthur stumbled to his feet, working his boots off in a flurry, needing to bridge the too-big space between him and Merlin. “You have a servant kink,” he commented, reaching out to brush his fingers over Merlin’s waist—he had a long-standing love affair with his hips.

“And you have a prince kink,” Merlin threw back, fingertips reverently grazing the swell of Arthur’s bicep. He glanced at him, closing the empty air between them, and added, “Sire.”

“Sod off.”

Arthur cut Merlin off mid-laugh, pressing their lips together. He kissed him deeply, nipping and sucking at Merlin’s bottom lip, teasing the seam with quick swipes of his tongue until he complied, opening his mouth to allow Arthur much-needed access. Hands moved on their own accord; threading through thick hair and gripping fist-holds tight; kneading the flesh above a graceful bend of a hip; sliding up the muscular span of a back. With an insistent tug their bodies slotted together, fitting together like two halves of a perfect whole, all hard lines and warm skin and eager mouths.

Arthur pushed against Merlin’s chest, backing him into the bathroom counter until he was trapped between the sink and the onslaught of Arthur’s decisive touches. He kept on surging forward, hooking his arms under Merlin’s legs and pushing him up onto the stone bench. Arthur soon slipped beneath Merlin’s spread legs—the one place he knew he belonged—and gripped his waist tight in a painful grip, drawing him closer. Merlin groaned at the sudden friction, his arousal pressed hot and hard to Arthur’s. Fingers grasped for a belt, working the blasted buckle open in rapid succession. Arthur was forced to break their slow, insistent kiss to look down and nearly break the belt in two, ripping the fastenings of Merlin’s pants open and shoving them down his legs.

“No fair,” Merlin complained, tugging at Arthur’s still-clothed chest.

Arthur smiled against his lips, hands planted on either side of his waist and resting their foreheads together in a moments reprieve. “What’s with your obsession with being starkers all the time?”

Flushed and grinning, Merlin said, “because skin-on-skin contact feels good.” He wrapped his legs around Arthur’s waist as proof, the obstructive layer of fabric separating them near torture, but an experimental roll of his hips proved otherwise.

Arthur bowed forward, leaning all his weight into Merlin. He swore against Merlin’s collarbone, gripping the side of his thigh so hard his knuckles were white. Merlin’s hands slid between their bodies to grasp the hem of Arthur’s shirt, pulling it up over his head.

“How about I make you a deal?” Merlin teased, nimble fingers delving beneath the waistline of Arthur’s pants, grabbing a handful of his delectable arse.

“Hmm?” Arthur implored, sucking an array of red marks along Merlin’s collarbone, drawing back to admire his handiwork. He tried to focus his attention on anything that wasn’t the overwhelming sensation of heat and flesh at the centre of his groin.

“You get naked. I get in the shower. You join me.”

“I see, practical but efficient.” Arthur nodded sagely, paying due respect to the point where Merlin’s neck met his shoulder, biting down on the skin.

“You pillock,” Merlin replied, thumping the back of Arthur’s head playfully.

He chuckled, sneaking in one more kiss. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

Arthur pulled back, his pants already halfway down his thighs when Merlin reached out and caught his wrist. Enchanted, Arthur watched as Merlin drew his hand to his mouth and kissed each one of his knuckles, rubbing a small, distracting circle on the skin over the back of his thumb. Arthur shuddered, somehow undone by the simple and chaste touch, lost in the blue depths of his lover’s eyes.

“I heard a rumour that Martin Freeman paid good money to remain anonymous three doors down.”

Arthur whistled, impressed. “Really?”

“Really. You wanna scout out the premises after we take a good, long, well-deserved shower?”

After the said good, long, well-deserved shower the pair—a right pair of idiots dressed in loose shirts and sweatpants, wandering down the tavern’s hall and sniggering like a bunch if schoolgirls all the while—soon discovered that Martin Freeman was, in fact, three doors down yet not entirely dressed for company.

Turns out he did make one hell of a cup of tea though.

*

It was Sunday morning, a steady downpour of rain drumming on the roof above, and—for once—it seemed both Merlin and Arthur had the day off—the _whole_ blooming day. But Arthur didn’t want to go anywhere today. In fact, he preferred to spend his time in the quiet solace of his apartment, on the couch with his head resting on Merlin’s knee and a book open in front of him.

He sat on the lip of his bed, running a hand through his hair and frantically blinking to clear the blur of sleep from his vision before glancing outside the window. It looked like a picture from some obscure indie blog—a discarded blanket curled around a half-drunk mug on the window seat, droplets of water patterning the glass pane. He had to smile at that—at how picturesque perfect this moment was.

Merlin groaned, rolling over in his sleep, his foot brushing Arthur’s naked back. Repressing a snort of laughter, he turned to the big dumb git beside him. Merlin was still asleep, no more than a shock of dark hair and pale limbs stretched across the rumpled length of his bed. Arthur placed a soft kiss to his forehead, tenderly brushing the hair back in a decidedly intimate action. His nostrils filled with the lingering scent of sweat and sex from last night, still clinging to his skin and twisted bedsheets. On a whim, Arthur scrawled a message on a Post-It note and stuck it to the nearby bedside table, smoothing the edges down. With one more look at Merlin, unguarded and fond in expression, he departed the room.

Wearing nothing but an apron—the sole reason being to elicit a wide-eyed, hopelessly happy expression from Merlin at seeing his boyfriend cooking in the nude—he decided on making crêpes.  But after scrounging a recipe from the collection of handwritten pages secured between a binder, running his gaze over the ingredients and method, Arthur thought the better of it. Crêpes seemed like the Mona Lisa of food. Pancakes were more in his league—being the one memory of his childhood that was actually normal.

He whipped up a batter—Merlin liked it sweet, so Arthur made it sweet, adding a pinch of sugar. Eggs, flour, milk, butter, sugar and a dash of vanilla essence all mixed together in a ceramic bowl, the saucepan simmering over medium heat and the low hum of radio music filling the apartment.

He could never seem to get over how simple this was. Things had never come easy to Arthur—whether it be relationships or general feelings—but ever since Merlin breezed into his life it was clear he was never leaving. Without him knowing, Merlin was slotted into a positon Arthur didn’t know he was missing from his meagre existence, his wide smiles and big ears and even bigger laugh filling the grey-hued world with vibrant bursts of colour and life.

Smiling, Arthur poured a steady stream of pale mixture into the frypan, the melted butter sizzling around a rough circle of batter. The radio talk show host—some prat with a bigger ego than a dick—was silenced as a song started to play, the music low and sonorous. It was a little too modern for Arthur’s tastes, but good just the same—different in tone, but good.

As Arthur waited for the crêpes to cook, he spared a glance at the fridge. There, stuck to door with a stupid magnet straight from a tawdry tourist shop, was a black-and-white strip of pictures you can only get from a photo booth. He could hardly remember getting them done—that whole weekend had been a string of unfamiliar pubs, an alcohol-drenched blur of kissing and uncontrollable laughter wafting into the night sky—but he remembered being crammed into the small photo space, with Merlin sprawled over his lap or a sloppy kiss pressed to his neck, the both of them irrevocably, stupidly happy.

The first picture was taken whilst the pair were still trying to get comfortable, the crown of Merlin’s hand a large dark haze which blocked out most of everything else—fragments revealing a tuft of Arthur’s golden hair, a blurred, wide smile that showed too much teeth, and the long column of Merlin’s neck. The second was more controlled, Merlin opting to press a chaste kiss to the side of Arthur’s head as he stared straight ahead, his head held high and omitting an air of haughtiness. The third caught them in mid-laugh—Arthur couldn’t remember why—and Merlin’s head was thrown back and his mouth open, and Arthur was doubled over at the waist, eyes closed and smile so big honest-to-God laugh lines appeared around his mouth. The fourth was his favourite picture, and although it could be perceived as a cliché it was nonetheless special. It was a snapshot of the two, frozen in time: Arthur and Merlin’s foreheads were pressed together, hands and arms curled around shoulders and necks and gripping at the roots of hair, their gazes soft and intimate.

Humming, distracted, Arthur didn’t notice Merlin’s lanky frame appear at the doorway to their bedroom. Merlin watched his boyfriend in silence, smiling—unable to stop. Arthur always seemed to be able to elicit that response in him, no matter what the situation. His smile widened into a grin as his gaze travelled over Arthur, noticing the expanse of bare golden skin under his skimpy apron, suppressing a groan at the sight of a deliciously round arse.

Merlin decided Arthur’s best feature was his arse, his crooked smile coming in a close second, and then third place going to his soft, silk-smooth, made-to-tug-on hair. Arthur had often said—with a hint of sarcasm, although it was belied by an affectionate tone—that Merlin’s best feature was his ears, the comment usually followed by a wet, eager mouth pressing to, and soon sucking, the shell of his ear. But Merlin knew Arthur liked his cheekbones the most, and also his lean hips and tapered waist and the curve of his neck. Pale skin. Slender wrists. Elegant fingers. He liked the sharp edges and slim lines of Merlin’s profile, and the sinuous muscle corded in his arms and stomach and back and legs, so different to the firm breadth and brawn—the perfect imperfection—of Arthur’s own body.

Arthur turned, sensing the weight of unseen eyes lingering on his exposed backside—namely his arse. He shot a smug grin at Merlin over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow in a decidedly come-hither fashion. Merlin stood there, leaning up against the wooden doorframe with his arms crossed and grey drawstring pants hanging dangerously low on his waist—proving Arthur’s theory that Merlin’s hipbones were made to be sucked on. His whole I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-after-a-thorough-fucking look was shattered by the bedsheet he wrapped around his bare shoulders, dragging on the floor behind him like a robe, bearing a greater resemblance to a large, cumbersome human burrito rather than anything remotely shaggable.

“You cooking me breakfast? Like, crêpes?” Merlin asked, a little too gleeful for his own good. “I didn’t think you had it in you, clotpole.”

Arthur’s reply was whip-fast: “You didn’t complain when it was in you last night, dollophead.”

Merlin groaned theatrically, rolling his eyes before thumping over to where Arthur stood, doing everything in his power not to stare at his boyfriend’s firm arse cheeks. He dropped a swift kiss onto Arthur’s shoulder, resting his chin upon the rounded flesh and muscle he had grown much aquatinted with, watching Arthur cook with an unknown finesse. Merlin’s arms slid around his boyfriend’s waist, pressing their bodies flush together as his teeth grazed Arthur’s skin in a light, teasing bite. The bedsheet fluttered to the floor, forgotten. He felt the steady beat of Arthur’s pulse under his lips and his tongue darted out to trace the invisible vein. Arthur shuddered, once, before angling his head back to look at Merlin levelly.

“Stop it.” He chastised. “Not when I’m actually succeeding at being romantic for once in the past month. Can you at least give me this?”

Merlin’s face clouded, his brow furrowed and expression worried. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur brushed it off nonchalantly, returning his attention to the sizzling frypan.

“No, Arthur, don’t do that to me. Look at me, please.” Merlin’s voice was serious, soft fingers grasping his chin and turning his gaze towards him.  “Now, what do you mean by succeeding at being romantic?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does.”

Arthur’s head snapped up at the determination in Merlin’s voice, and he was left wondering if maybe he wasn’t the strong one in this relationship. He scrunched his eyes shut at the overwhelming rise of emotion in his chest, fighting back that wave of vulnerability that threatened to show. He heard the shuffle of feet, and felt hair on the side of his neck as Merlin placed a careful kiss on the wide berth of his shoulder again. His loose grip on Arthur’s waist tightened, ensuring there was no space left between to occupy. It was a simple hug, absent of all sexual innuendo or primal instinct, just the simple feel of flesh against flesh, the circle of strong arms around Arthur offering a secure and warm cocoon of comfort—of the promise of something good.

“I love you,” Merlin near whispered, the fond smile evident in his voice. Arthur felt another chaste kiss at the point where his shoulder met his neck, and then another on the sensitive spot behind his ear, and then a final kiss pressed to the hard line of his jaw.

“I love you too,” Arthur replied, resting his head against Merlin’s and sighing.

“So are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?”

He nodded mutely, knowing Merlin was the one person he could tell anything, free of judgment. “I’ve been . . .” he struggled for words, floundering once again in the communication department, “I made the decision to go and do something nice and romantic for you. And I tried to do it right—I really did—but nothing panned out how I wanted it to, and most of our nights were ruined one way or another.” He sighed; glad he wasn’t facing Merlin now, bearing witness to his disappointment. “I told myself that you’d put up with enough of my crap that you deserved something special, and that sometimes you needed more than words to understand just how much I loved you and—” He stumbled, choked, grasping onto the lip of the kitchen counter for some form of support.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispered against the back of his neck, his breath hot and damp on his skin.

“Hmm?” He couldn’t risk coherent speech, not just yet.

“Is this what the Italian restaurant was about?”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“And the home-cooked dinner and Gwaine’s mixed tape?

“Yes.”

“And the trip to the countryside?”

His final word was hoarse, pained: “Yes.”

Merlin chuckled, the small noise knocking Arthur in the stomach so hard he couldn’t breathe. He pushed Merlin away roughly, already falling prey to a building headache, unable to believe he had just told Merlin all his failures and he’d just _laughed_ in response. Slowly, his gaze rose to find Merlin’s, and he held, seeing the amusement slowly drain from his boyfriend’s face at seeing his expression laid open and vulnerable—he was hurt, he was raw.

“Arthur, no—”

He was quick to cut him off, angry. “Do you think this is funny?” Arthur demanded. “Do you think this wasn’t hard for me to try and do—or say? Merlin, I had never done anything like that before in my life and I tell you that, _trusting you_ , and you just laugh at me? You just mock me?” He did everything in his power to remain in control of the situation, not allowing his heart to rule his head, but in every passing second his mask of indifference slipped. Tears blurred his vision and he made a furious move to wipe them away, erasing the evidence.

“Arthur—”

“No!” He shouted. “You don’t get to do that, Merlin. Not now.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said again, his voice tremulous. Arthur was forced to look at him then, realising that whatever he was feeling was increased tenfold for Merlin—his expression was broken, pain evident in how he hunched forward as if he was protecting himself. “Arthur,” his name was a plea to listen—and so Arthur did. “I didn’t laugh because I was making fun of you—fuck, you should know that’s the last thing I would ever do.” He wiped his own tears away, his beautiful fingers shaking. “I was laughing because all those nights you said that turned out horrible—the restaurant, the dinner at home, the cottage—was some of the best nights of my life.”

Arthur was speechless, unable to comprehend or believe a word of what Merlin was saying. “But—” He grappled for a train of thought, the end of a sentence, something.

“You remember after the restaurant, when we went back to bookstore?” Merlin beat him to it, his bottom lip quivering. Arthur nodded dumbly in response—it was all he could do. “And we bought a bottle of Bailey’s and we just sat there, in the back of that dark store, doing nothing but quoting Monty Python and sharing that couch and just _being_ together? Didn’t you see how happy I was? Didn’t you see how much it meant to me that you remembered the first night we kissed? Don’t you think back to that night and smile?”

“But I fucked up the reservation—”

“You didn’t fuck up anything!” Merlin argued, his tone stronger now, more determined in proving Arthur wrong. “I couldn’t have cared less where we were, as long as I was with you. Don’t you know that?” He tried again for words, but Merlin talked over the top of him: “And then I came home one night and you had made dinner for me, Arthur. You can barely make more than a pot of coffee, let alone a three course meal—and yet you did it all for me.”

“Of course I did it for you,” Arthur murmured softly, his fists unclenching the longer he looked at Merlin—his beautiful, stubborn Merlin—and his rage slowly began to dissipate.

“When Gwaine’s voice came in on the mixed tape and he started playing those stupid 80s songs you actually danced with me,” Merlin was speaking quieter now, speaking in soft, low, tones, his own temper disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “And you never dance with me, not even when you’re drunk. I had never laughed more than on that night, Arthur. I laughed so much my ribs ached and I couldn’t even bare to look at you in your socks and underwear without dissolving into a puddle of tears. It was the most fun I’d had all year, it was one of the greatest moments of my life, it’s a memory I’ll cherish forever—and it was all because of you.”

“And the cottage?” Arthur prompted, his lips quirking up into the smallest of smiles.

“You remember the shower?”

This time he couldn’t help it—his smile was a full-blown grin. “How could I forget?”

“Well, it was our first time in one.”

Arthur’s brow creased. “But,” he said, “we’ve shagged in the shower before . . . I’m sure of it.”

Merlin put his hands on his hips, and Arthur recalled an echo of that night in The Rising Sun—his front pressed to the tiled, water-slick wall of the shower with Merlin’s fingers digging into his sides, keeping him grounded as his muscles clenched, pleasure building to an epic climax that caused white spots to swirl in his vision.

“Yeah, we’ve showered together, but we’ve never had actual sex in a shower before. So,” he lifted his slim, bird-like shoulders in an innocent shrug, almost smiling—Arthur just needed to see that smile to know everything was okay. “That was one for the road.” He perked up, rubbing a hand over his mouth to school his features. “And we saw Martin Freeman butt-naked and he still made us a cup of tea for the ages.”

“Gotta love the British: when in doubt, put the kettle on.”

Arthur’s comment worked to the desired affects—Merlin outright laughed, throwing his head back and the apartment filling with the most beautiful sound in the world. When he quieted Arthur was still smiling at him, his expression one of fond affection. Merlin sobered up, looking down before directing his full attention onto Arthur.

“Do you forgive me?” Arthur asked, worried the answer would effectively shatter his world.

“Better,” Merlin said, closing the space between them in two swift strides. “I love you.”

Arthur’s smile was blinding. In-between a peppering of desperate kisses and frantic grasping at skin and hair and minimal clothing, caught up in a whirlwind of desire, Arthur managed to return Merlin’s sentiment.

It was different now—the kissing harder, the touches purposeful. It was fuelled the need to be wrapped up in the taste and feel and smell of one another, breaths mingling and the solid thrum of their hearts beating in tandem. At first it was sweet and searching, and deep, the thread of understanding binding them together—they had complete trust in each other, loyal to a fault. Hands mapped out all the planes and angles and curves of their bodies, lingering on the places that elicited a gasp or a stuttered moan, the slow build of heat unparalleled to any other sensation known to man. It was gentle. Comforting.

But then it grew into to something more  . . . desperate in nature. Mouths were forced open, succumbing to the wet, slick slide of tongues. Their noses knocked and their teeth clashed, but it was laced with an undeniable fondness. The affection in their touches was evident when the pair broke apart, panting, their foreheads touching. Arthur swiped the pad of his thumb across the point of Merlin’s cheekbone, and Merlin leaned in to place a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, attuned to every nuance of their expression. There was no space left to occupy between them, bodies pressed flush together in a bid to feel everything they couldn’t reach—the frame of a collarbone, the pointed V of muscle disappearing beneath a waistband, the pliant flesh beneath the rounded curve of an arse.

Merlin had gripped onto Arthur’s biceps for balance before, anchoring himself to the ground, but now he was pushing against him. He was urging him backwards, demanding something rather than asking for it. He was in control now, wanting—needing—to make Arthur see just how much he meant to him. Arthur backed into the kitchen counter, throwing his arm out to grasp for purchase and instead knocking a bowl aside. He turned his head to the side, breaking the kiss. Merlin hissed his disproval, but his irritation was soon replaced with good humour as Arthur held his hand up—covered in flour, his fingers white with it—and flicked it at Merlin.

“Hey,” he laughed, wiping the substance from his face.

“Yeah?” Arthur pursed his fingers and flicked another fine spray of flour at Merlin.

Merlin’s grin grew wide and dangerous, and he reached behind Arthur, grabbing a fistful of flour from the bowl. Slowly, deliberately, Merlin slung his arm back and sent an arc of the cooking stuff flying straight towards Arthur, splattering him across the chest.

Arthur looked down at his flour-covered torso in disbelief, and then threw the entire contents of the bowl at Merlin in a movement that was almost too fast to see. Merlin made a noise of outrage, launching himself at Arthur, arms wrapping around his neck to give him a right noogy. Laughing loud and uninhibited, Arthur wrestled out of Merlin’s loose, lanky grip, smearing flour across their arms and faces and stomachs. Merlin tried to fight back, making girlish squeals whenever Arthur rubbed a handful of flour over his mouth or painted his thick hair white with the stuff, but he was at his complete and utter mercy in his arms.

“You prick,” Merlin admonished, rubbing his forehead with his forearm, blinking erratically. His hair was pale with flour, streaks of it marking his chest, coating his skin in a

Arthur grinned, the bubble of happiness blooming in his chest threatening to burst.

Merlin chose this moment to lean forward, biting down on his bottom lip, and pressed the tip of his index finger to Arthur’s nose. “Boop.”

“I can’t believe you sometimes!” Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin’s middle, swinging him around like an errant child, his laughter loud and tinkling in his ear. He knew he must’ve looked stupid, ridiculous even, but he didn’t care—not when he had Merlin. When Arthur finally set Merlin on his feet, he was kissing him, his smile evident against his lips.

They stood like that for a while, backed into the counter and covered in flour, kissing just for the hell of it. And it was magical, it was special, it was everything Arthur had been trying to do for the past fucking month.

He almost devoured Merlin, the taste of flour in his mouth and messing his hair even further, desperately searching for whatever Merlin would give him and claiming it as his. He sucked a bruise onto his neck, Merlin’s pulse pounding beneath his teeth, gripping his hip so hard it left crescent-shaped indentations. Merlin raked his nails down Arthur’s back, dropping his head to lick a line clean of flour along his collarbone, mouthing downwards over his chest, circling his tongue over a nipple. Arthur moaned, pulling Merlin back up to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, returning the favour as his hand palmed Merlin through his pants. He gasped, curling his grip around Arthur’s neck and quivering under his practiced touch.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered.

“Hmm?” His finger teased the waistband of Merlin’s pants before slipping inside, grasping him—

“—Arthur,” Merlin groaned, helpless.

“Yeah?”

“Can I just”—he sucked in a shaky breath, eyelids fluttering shut—“do something for you.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, but he continued his actions, revelling in the pained little moan he drew from Merlin’s fuckable mouth. He knew those sounds could unravel him—his growing arousal attesting to that—but nothing compared to watching Merlin lose all control beneath him. But Arthur turned his head, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Merlin’s forehead before withdrawing his offending hand.

“What?” he prompted, smirking at Merlin’s rumpled state, with his kiss-swollen lips and shameless smile.

Merlin took a second to compose himself, shaking his head before grinning up at Arthur, so happy and carefree and achingly beautiful the sight nearly stopped his heart in its tracks. He rested a hand on Arthur’s chest, putting some space between them, drinking in the vision of his semi-nude, flour-splattered boyfriend like it was a work of art.

“Let me,” Merlin said, his voice low and deliberate.

His touches were deliberate, his gaze intimate. Merlin’s hands skimmed down Arthur’s sides, undoing the strap of his apron with a deft ease and pulling it over Arthur’s head in a flash. He stepped back, taking a quick moment to admire the strong, golden body beneath his hands, noticing Arthur trembling imperceptibly under his touch. It was Arthur’s turn to be treated like something precious, like he was worth a damn. Merlin loved how he could so this—how he could make Arthur to stare at him through lust-dark eyes with such an intensity it burned him, Merlin’s gaze dropping to Arthur’s open and willing mouth.

He couldn’t help it—he practically fell into Arthur’s waiting kiss. Merlin’s limbs moved on their own accord, cupping Arthur’s face between his hands. “Love you,” he mumbled against his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Love you,” Arthur said, softer.

And then Merlin knelt beneath Arthur’s legs without breaking his gaze once, fingers trailing down over his arms and the expanse of his abdomen and thighs in a sensual, drawn-out motion. Merlin’s smile was private, settling something in Arthur, keeping him grounded. He palmed the side of Merlin’s head, brushing the hair in a tender motion.

Arthur’s head lolled back when Merlin took him in his mouth, a wanton moan ripped from his throat. His fingers twitched and clenched in Merlin’s hair, unable to look down at the dark head bobbing below him without damn near falling to pieces. His hips stuttered forward on instinct, spurred into action by the quick, wicked actions of Merlin’s tongue, teasing him in every which way possible. He whispered a plea, a string of strangled words consisting of _please_ and _more_ and _oh god Merlin_. Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat when Merlin changed the angle, fingers digging into the flesh and twisting—sucking Arthur halfway to heaven.

Arthur came with a gasp, pulled from deep in his chest, pleasure building from the base of his spine. His release was intense, almost violent in nature—everything fading and blurring around him, nonsensical shapes and muted colours, his entire consciousness focused on the feel of Merlin’s mouth around him.

Arthur whimpered, trying to pull Merlin to him, just needing to be close to him—to feel every part of him. Merlin withdrew from him with a soft, wet, filthy noise that had the back of Arthur’s head hitting the kitchen cabinet, and Merlin rose to his feet with a deliberate slowness. He paid worship to Arthur, treating him like a sacred object, frequent kisses placed to the curves and edges of the body beneath his hands, soft fingers and teeth grazing bare skin, a tongue darting out to tease the swell of muscle. Arthur’s cheeks were flushed and hot, his knees almost ready to give out, his inhibitions stripped bare and laid raw before Merlin.

“You utter bastard,” Arthur was surprised to hear the low, rough quality, smiling through the golden haze of his post-release. His boyfriend’s eyes were dark, his own smile threatening to set the room ablaze. Foreheads touching, lips ghosting over mouths and the soft dip below a nose and every other place it could reach, Arthur—helpless, at the complete and utter mercy of love—ran his hands over Merlin’s waist, pulling him close.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, saying his name like a prayer.

“Yeah?”

“My turn.” His hand brushed Merlin’s hardness through his drawstring pants. Arthur felt the soft flutter of eyelashes against the side of his cheek, his ear ringing with a quiet, drawn-out moan. He grinned, pushing at his chest, walking him backwards until he hit the spare kitchen bench. Merlin gasped at the contact, sounding almost pained, and when Arthur rolled his hips forward in a languid motion he almost cried aloud.

“Arthur, please.” His voice was desperate, weak.

Arthur complied, near ripping Merlin’s pants off and turning him around, fingers splayed across his back and biting into the plaint flesh of his shoulder. “Good boy,” he murmured, a little too spurred on by the sight of Merlin bent over the kitchen bench. Merlin made a disgruntled noise, but reached around to grab a hold of Arthur’s hand, pulling it—and Arthur—close to him. Smirking, Arthur let himself be tugged forward, fitting his body against Merlin’s, his weight bearing down on the smaller man. He made sure Merlin was prepared, that he was comfortable and relaxed beneath Arthur’s touch, not stopping in his ministrations until Merlin was gasping and writhing against him.

Arthur reached down in-between their interlocked bodies, aligning himself. “You ready?”

Merlin nodded mutely, gripping Arthur’s hand tighter and opening his legs wider.

Arthur pushed forward, past the tight ring of resistance and his breath coming out in a graceless stutter. Merlin was so tight, so warm and wet and willing around him that he almost lost control then and there. He stilled for a moment, allowing Merlin to relax and the thrum of blood in his ears to subside. Then, the action so small and quick Arthur almost missed it, Merlin nodded.

Arthur began to move, his first thrusts slow and shallow, experimental in tempo. It was that or unravel in a few quick, hard movements. He kissed Merlin when he could manage, on the slope of his neck or his shoulders, letting the slow, torturous heat build between them. He could feel every clench of muscle, every intake of breath, every little moan of pleasure. A fine sheen of sweat covered them both, and Arthur wound his hands in Merlin’s thick hair, pulling at the roots ever-so-slightly.

“Merlin?” he couldn’t help it, he needed to move faster, to push deeper.

“Harder, Arthur,” he whimpered, the noise a small, wrecked sound.

Arthur pushed into Merlin as far as he could, a groan ripped from the bottom of his stomach. Merlin reeled back, begging to move faster, for Arthur to fuck him good and proper. Arthur did as he was bid, finding a steady rhythm between their frantic thrusts, aware of a bead of sweat rolling down Merlin’s back. He licked the line of sweat up his boyfriend’s spine, finger digging into Merlin’s hips, his mind abuzz with the feeling of bare skin beneath him, around him.

Naked skin, bared teeth, the slick wetness of sweat—it was all too much, Arthur so close his vision started to blur. His breathing was erratic, his chest too small to take in the gulps of air he needed. He was too warm, too consumed in the thrum of his heartbeat under his fingers, needing to look at Merlin—to kiss him. He reached for the side of Merlin’s face amidst it all, the movements of his hips starting to lose consistency in its movements, practically fevered. He was anchored to this world only by the feel of Merlin—that beautiful expanse of pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes under his hands—and meeting his thrusts with just as much enthusiasm. Arthur reached forward to grip a handful of his hair, pulling his head up and back, turning his mouth towards him and—crushing their mouths together, hard and fast and desperate.

A loud, guttural moan was ripped from Arthur’s tight throat, a slow burn of pleasure building, building, building and then—sweet release, so intense his toes curled and a sob was punched from his heaving chest. Merlin clenched around him, spurred on by the feel of Arthur’s own climax ripping through him, following him into the abyss, the sounds he was making loud and beautiful.

Arthur bit his lip, the pace of his hips slowing, all tension seeping from his muscles. He stuttered forward once more, crying out weakly as the last wave of ecstasy rolled over him, punctuated by Merlin’s soft, wistful sigh. Arthur thought he might pass out from it, the pleasure bordering on pain. His heavy weight bore down on Merlin, unable to move, unable to barely even breathe. He rolled his head to the side, hands sliding up Merlin’s sides, kissing the angular point of his shoulder.

“Merlin,” he whispered against his lover’s skin, lips sticky with sweat.

“Hmm?”

“Merlin,” he said again, reluctantly pulling back, knowing he must be crushing Merlin. He groaned, a haze of lust and contentment and restfulness clouding his mind. Gasping, Arthur braced himself against the bench, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to gain control of _something_. Slowly, Merlin pushed himself up, his back bumping Arthur’s front as he stood, leaning into his warmth and solidity on instinct.

“Come here,” Arthur said, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s middle, “I need to see you.”

Merlin acquiesced, his expression so open and happy that Arthur’s heart ached. He kissed him then—he had too—and he kissed him deep, soft, and intimate. His legs were shaking, and so were Merlin’s, and soon they were no more than a tangled heap on the ground, boneless. Enveloped in each other’s secure embrace, kisses and touches and small, private smiles swapped between them—and it was all Arthur needed.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” He nosed the side of Merlin’s head, seeking the feel of bare skin under his palms. His body went lax, his expression so easy and so happy it even rivalled Merlin’s. He was perfectly content to sit on the grimy kitchen floor of his and his boyfriend’s tiny apartment, naked and his lips bruised red with kisses, as long as he had Merlin sitting there right beside him. Merlin turned towards Arthur, gifting him with a sweet, chaste kiss that settled the storm that forever raged inside him.

It was simple, nothing too special, but it was good.

“What’s that smell?” Merlin asked suddenly.

Arthur sniffed the air, blanching a disturbing shade of white. “Bollocks. The crêpes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think, cherries. Also, come and make merry with me on Tumblr: diggitydamnsebastianstan


End file.
